I do make sure I get out of the house at least a couple of times a week. Preferably for more than trips to the grocery store. Then again, casting my mind back, I can’t actually remember the last time I came here. Maybe I’ve slipped further down the slope than even Yolanda realises.
As a kid, visiting the cafe at the end of the street was a big outing. My mother brought me here for a milkshake once a month, as her mother brought her here back when it was little more than a corner store. This was one of the few places Mum felt comfortable. I was eight when the elderly owners retired and sold the business to the Nguyen family. We stopped coming. Mum wasn’t sure the old place would be the same with new owners. On my tenth birthday, I’d begged her to bring me back. I missed the hustle and bustle of the place. I missed being in the world beyond our backyard. She’d relented.
Her hand had trembled in mine as we walked the three-hundred metres from our house, but Mrs Nguyen had welcomed us with a sunny smile, and she made such a fuss over me when I told her it was my birthday. I’d even gotten an extra-large slice of chocolate cake. The experience put Mum’s mind at ease, and we’d resumed our visits.
The Nguyen family watched me grow up over the years, their delight giving way to concern when they realised how isolated we were. When Mum passed away, Mr and Mrs Nguyen came to the funeral. Their presence meant I needed two hands to count the attendees, and I’d be forever grateful. My mother might not have had much to do with the world outside in her last two decades of life, but she’d meant the world to me.
“You’re too skinny,” Mr Nguyen says, gesturing to me with his tea towel. “You want chocolate cake?”
I give a small laugh. “No, thank you. I’m waiting for someone. He should be here soon.”
“You’re meeting a boy?” The older man’s eyes flash with surprise. “That’s good. You deserve a nice boy.”
“It’s not a date, it’s a business meeting.” My back straightens. I sound almost professional.
He looks suitably impressed. “I see. I’ll leave you to it then.”
After he walks away, I check the time. It’s after nine. Tristan should have been here ten minutes ago. Maybe he’s not coming. Maybe he’s decided this meeting is a waste of his valuable time and he’d prefer to do something else. If that’s true, I’ll be able to finish my tea and go home. I won’t even have to feel bad about not having the meeting because I won’t have chickened out. Relief rushes from my chest. Here I let myself get all worked up over nothing.
Movement by the door catches my attention. A man walks in wearing a classy suit, complete with shiny shoes and a fashionable tie. Except, the tie is askew and the shirt looks vaguely rumpled, like it may have been scooped up off a bedroom floor. He tunnels one hand through his dark hair, before running it self-consciously over the hint of stubble on his perfectly angular jaw.
“Oh my.” Is this Tristan Whitmore? It can’t possibly be. This man doesn’t look ready to conduct a business meeting. If anything, he looks like he just rolled out of bed. But in the sexy, dishevelled way that makes you want to drag him right back into it again. Well, maybeIwouldn’t drag him. I’m not known for dragging anyone anywhere. If I could though, oh yes, I’d love to grab hold of this man and give him a good yank.
His head turns as he glances around the cafe and I drop my gaze to the table, trying desperately to rein in my accelerated heart rate. “I can do this,” I mutter under my breath. “He’s just a person. He’s just a person.”
He is so not just a person. He’s a freakishly hot, gorgeous person. I didn’t expect him to be gorgeous. I mean, I didn’t have any clue what he looked like, but I didn’t expect… wow.
Looking up through my lashes, I see him lift a hand to cover a wide yawn and I stifle a smile at how adorable gorgeous can be.
Gathering all my willpower, I start to stand, but then Mr Nguyen returns to the counter. The man steps forwards to place his order and I drop back into my seat. Glancing around, I hope none of the other customers noticed my awkward move.
I’m such a ninny. It shouldn’t be this hard to walk up and introduce myself to someone. But then, a lot of things in my life shouldn’t have been as hard as my brain wanted to make them. This is hardly uncharted territory for me.
Unsure what to do next, I pick up my phone and pretend to read something on the screen. As long as I don’t look up again, he’ll never know I’ve seen him. If heisTristan, he’ll come to me eventually. If not, I’ll have saved myself the embarrassment of getting caught ogling the most attractive man in the room.
The back of my neck prickles with awareness as I wait. Is he looking for me? The thought of this meeting made my gut churn all morning, but now the moment has arrived I don’t want to miss out. My bank balance needs his help.
I sneak another peek as he turns away from the counter. His wandering eyes pass over me briefly, before snapping back. Apparently he knows what I look like, because once his gaze finds mine it doesn’t let go. Striding towards me, he stops behind the chair on the far side of my table.
He doesn’t greet me with a smile, but something about the eagerness in his expression suggests meeting me is at the top of his list of preferred activities for the day.
“Sam.”
A shiver passes through me at the way he says my name, all low and husky. As if he’s said it before—often. As if we’re already familiar with each other. I would love to be familiar with him.
“Yes,” I sigh, before fighting the urge to slap myself silly. Could I sound any more like a breathless schoolboy with his first crush? I don’t even know this guy. “I mean, hi. I’m Sam.” I thrust my hand out. “Sam Stephenson.”
“Tristan Whitmore,” he replies as we shake. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sam.”
“Likewise.” I try not to grimace at how clammy my hand feels against the dry warmth of his palm.
Gesturing to the chair, he says, “May I?”
Argh, stupid! I should have offered him a seat. He must think I’m a mannerless buffoon. “Please,” I say—too loudly. “Sit.”
He sits. We stare at each other for a long moment. “Sorry I’m late,” he says, finally. “I overslept.” His frown is paired with a wry grin that suggests the idea of oversleeping is ludicrous.
“It happens,” I assure him.
